


True Love is Not an Every-Day Occurrence

by IHaveNeverBeenWise



Series: That One Princess Bride AU [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Princess Bride AU, The Princess Bride - Freeform, blame it on janelle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-27
Packaged: 2017-12-15 18:09:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IHaveNeverBeenWise/pseuds/IHaveNeverBeenWise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Farm boy!” he’d called, but there was something almost pleading in his tone. Grantaire had paused at the door, looking at Enjolras, who was in turn looking all about the room. Grantaire thought to himself that with the morning sun illuminating half of his face, he would have looked more at home in one of the illuminated manuscripts that Enjolras owned than he did in a dirty hovel.</p>
<p>There was a tense moment of silence before Enjolras caught sight of a pitcher hanging over the table. “Fetch me that pitcher?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The day Grantaire applied for the job of farm hand to the Enjolras household was the day he fell in love. There was a brief interview with the master of the house, and he’d dressed for the occasion – his nicest tunic, leggings that weren’t covered in stains, and shoes that didn’t have gaping holes. He’d even shaved, although nothing could be done about the mop of curly hair that fell into his eyes.

“Can you work, boy?” The man was gruff, and his graying hair fell down to his shoulders. His nose was crooked, but he was not ugly.

“Yes, sir. I know how to work. The animals like me.” It was a lie – the goat in the yard had bitten him on the way in – but the master didn’t need to know any better.

“How old are you?”

His closest guess was thirteen; he’d no idea, and his mother couldn’t be sure. He chose not to say that either, instead saying only, “I’m old enough to know my way around a farm, and to work.” That was true, at least.

The questions continued in such a manner, and Grantaire made his best effort to answer earnestly, rather than answering in riddles or long, rambling speeches as was his habit . He thought he’d done rather well, if you had asked him. At the end of it, the man had looked him in the eyes and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Two coppers a week, and you’ll sleep in the loft above the stables. You’ll be fed. Is that suitable?”

Grantaire couldn’t contain his grin. “That’s wonderful, thank you, sir.”

The man had looked him up and down one last time and then stood, and escorted Grantaire to the door. “I’ll expect you early tomorrow morning, then.”

Nodding, Grantaire had been thrilled. It would be good to have a job again, to be able to afford things by himself. Since his mother’s death two years ago, he’d been living off of scraps at the inns in town.

He’d been whistling and staring at the sky when he’d walked right into the most beautiful boy he’d seen in his life.

The boy was slightly shorter than Grantaire himself, pale skin and blond hair that fell in golden ringlets, framing eyes the color of larkspur. That hair was pulled out of his face in a messy bun, strands coming free and getting in his eyes, but he didn’t seem to mind. He walked with the grace of a prince, even if the clothes he wore were brown wool. He was, without a doubt, gorgeous, even as his cheeks were flushed and his clothes wrinkled with an afternoon of riding.

“Oh,” he gave a snort of surprise, and Grantaire looked at him hopefully. “You’re the new farm boy.”

Grantaire nodded eagerly, but his voice seemed to desert him – he couldn’t form words, much less his usual banter.

“Well,” the boy continued haughtily. “My mare is in the stables, she’s the black one. Farm boy, brush her down and fetch her something to eat. Then polish her saddle until it shines, if you would.”

Not having the resolution to tell him that he didn’t start until the next day, Grantaire did so gladly, no matter of the day. To please this golden boy, he suspected there wasn’t much that he wouldn’t do. It was to be the start of a routine between them that lasted many years.

As he walked away, Grantaire found his tongue, and called after him, “As you wish.”

The Enjolras boy turned, nodded curtly, and then flounced away, almost skipping. Grantaire watched him leave, and then sighed heavilyas he went to find the stables. Damn the gods for putting such a beautiful man just out of his reach.

It turned out that As you wish was the only thing Grantaire was capable of saying. But it wasn’t because he couldn’t find the words; he was afraid that if he said anything else, it would end up as Oh gods, you’re beautiful and I think I’m in love with you, please kiss me. And well…that would only cause trouble. Better to stick to familiar ground, and play it safe. He could live without Enjolras’ love, so long as he had Enjolras’ attention.

The tasks Enjolras sent him were numerous, if not particularly challenging. The years passed, and the goat that had bitten him birthed three kids. The old chickens died, and the young ones began laying. Life developed a pattern, and that pattern was entered around Enjolras.

It was four years later when Enjolras first said please.

He was chopping wood, and Enjolras had dropped two empty buckets in front of him. “Farm boy,” Grantaire straightened at the now-familiar name, shoving the wood from the stump and casting aside the axe. “Fill these with water,” Enjolras gestured, and then paused, biting his lip. “Please.”

Nodding, Grantaire replied only, “As you wish,” his voice soft. At first, he’d taken affront to the orders – he was a man, not a dog! But he’d learned that Enjolras meant no disrespect; it was only that he found words that were not necessary useless, and saying more than was needed to convey the thought pointless. Grantaire would not quite call them friends, but Enjolras allowed Grantaire to pine after him, and that was enough.

But rather than leaving, Enjolras turned back and looked at him. Grantaire could not meet his eyes and instead picked up the buckets. A flush was creeping up his neck, and he could feel the blood rushing to his face as well. Enjolras looked almost as if he were about to say something, and Grantaire cocked his head expectantly, but no words came. Instead, Enjolras whirled around and rushed away.

Shrugging, Grantaire made no note of it, sure that it was not important.

It was six months after that that things changed completely. Having spent those six months falling more and more unbearably in love with Enjolras, a feat he hadn’t thought possible. He’d think of clever things to say, a flirting comment to drop, or at the very least how to begin an intelligent conversation. However, he’d never quite been able to work up the courage to do so, and had ended up choking out a strangled, “As you wish!” before rushing off to do the task.

But since the day with the wood and the buckets, Enjolras had been gentle. He’d spoken softly, been less abrupt. Grantaire didn’t know what had caused the change, but he couldn’t say he minded it. It was…it was nice. Even when he watched Enjolras ride on his black mare from a distance and daydreamed about riding side by side, even when he wondered if Enjolras would let him braid his hair at night, even when his heart ached and he lay in bed and dreamed of an ink-stained hand holding one rough from work…he wouldn’t have given it up, not even then.

He’d been dropping of firewood in one of the rooms when Enjolras had stopped him.

“Farm boy!” he’d called, but there was something almost pleading in his tone. Grantaire had paused at the door, looking at Enjolras, who was in turn looking all about the room. Grantaire thought to himself that with the morning sun illuminating half of his face, he would have looked more at home in one of the illuminated manuscripts that Enjolras owned than he did in a dirty hovel.

There was a tense moment of silence before Enjolras caught sight of a pitcher hanging over the table. “Fetch me that pitcher?”

It was one that Enjolras easily could have gotten himself, but Grantaire found he didn’t mind in the slightest. There was something in Enjolras’ eyes that had Grantaire’s heart beating hard enough that he was sure Enjolras would hear it. He moved slowly across the room until he was standing in front of Enjolras, and he met Enjolras’ gaze squarely. Enjolras looked defiant, and stood his ground as Grantaire reached up, unhooked the pitcher, and handed it to Enjolras.

“As you wish,” he whispered quietly, and placed it in Enjolras’ hands, never breaking their gaze.

Enjolras smiled then, a soft smile that had Grantaire inwardly shrieking. He could deal with orders, with attention, but a smile –- oh, what had he done to make the gods look so favorably upon him, he, who did not even believe in them!

Apparently, he’d done quite a lot to please the gods, because Enjolras kissed him soundly, and it was felt as if there was nothing that could ever part them. He wanted to ask Enjolras how long, or why now, but the words would not come. Instead, they talked of a future, of a life together.

Summer was spent trading lazy kisses, riding together and laughing together, and laying side by side at night whispering of tomorrow, always tomorrow. Summer was growing colder and Grantaire was beginning to prepare for the harvest when Enjolras asked about marriage.

They’d never said it out right, no matter how many times it had been replied. The answer, of course, was yes. For Enjolras, always yes.

But as harvest came and the work around the farm increased, it was harder and harder to ignore the fact that Grantaire was a farm boy, nothing more. All of the coppers he’d saved could not compare to Enjolras; he had no money for marriage. It was problem he’d thought about as he worked for days on end, one that kept him up at night. He’d heard men tell tales of going to sea and coming back rich, of foreign lands and riches beyond imagination.

Enjolras, of course, had not agreed. They had argued late into the night, quietly but heatedly. There had been one miserable week in which Enjolras had refused to speak to him, and in petty retaliation, Grantaire did not kiss him for the following one. Eventually, their misery won over their pride, and Grantaire won the argument. The would treasure the times they had left, they decided, not waste it on squabbles. And when Grantaire came back, they would marry.

The day Grantaire left is not one he remembers fondly. They’d clung to each other with something bordering on desperation, Grantaire’s arms around Enjolras’ neck.

“I fear I’ll never see you again,” the confession slipped from Enjolras’ lips and Grantaire only rubbed circles into his back to soothe him. It was a fear they both shared, but one Grantaire was too afraid to voice. He could not bear to imagine a universe in which such a thing came to pass.

“Of course you will,” he whispered, but Enjolras had only grown tense in his arms.

“But what if something happens to you?” There was a time that Grantaire would have been overjoyed to hear such worry directed to him, but now, it only served to hurt his heart.

He pulled back from their embrace, but cupped Enjolras’ cheek with his hand, brushing his hair out of his eyes. “I will always come for you,” he promised, and meant it with all of his soul.

“But how can you be sure?” Enjolras, so sure of everything, no doubting.

“This is true love,” Grantaire scoffed, but then lowered his voice. “You think this happens every day?” With a small smile, he brushed his thumb over Enjolas’ cheek and leaned in for one last kiss before he left. It was bittersweet, and they prolonged it until Grantaire absolutely had to leave, and then he was gone, away on a ship to a new land, leaving Enjolras behind on the farm.

Grantaire never reached his destination.


	2. Bravery is Relative

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So when Prince Montparnasse began to search the kingdoms for a suitable husband, and offered Enjolras his hand, Enjolras accepted. As a prince – king – of the realm, there was so much he would be able to do. He could lower taxes, offer fair and just trials. Ideas for the reforms he could make to the judicial system alone kept him awake many nights, to say nothing of social and financial changes. This was opportunity!
> 
> In those five years, he never once allowed himself to look back. He kept himself busy, always busy, never think of all he was missing. Never thinking of dark hair and laughing eyes. There was no time for such thoughts, no use for such sentimentality. But when he was presented to the cheering crowds as their new prince, he found himself wishing desperately for Grantaire’s hand in his. Even after all this time, the marriage still felt like a betrayal.

The day the news was delivered to Enjolras is not one he likes to dwell on. The news came in the form of a letter, sealed with wax, the message a generic one with only the name to set it apart.

_To whom it may concern: The ship Oresteia was captured by the Dread Pirate Roberts. We regret to inform you that there are no known survivors. It is believed that Grantaire fell with the ship. Sincerest apologies._

His hands were shaking as he read the letter, and he hardly noticed when it slipped from his grasp, but he remained surprisingly calm. It was as if someone had thrown a blanket over his head; everything was muffled, dim. The only thing he was truly aware of was the beating of his heart, loud and painful, every beat a reminder that he was alone now, that Grantaire’s heart no longer beat in tandem with his own. But even that realization came later. The thought that he was alone, well and truly alone, that promises could be broken, and true love didn’t mean anything – that stage of grief didn’t come until later.

No, at first, everything slowed down. He made his way back to his room and lay atop his bed. He did not cry, did not shed a single tear. He entertained the idea that there may have been a mistake, an error – but no, he knew the letter to hold the truth. He slept fitfully, and when he awoke, it was from dreams of drowning. He awoke with a scream on his lips, clutching at his throat, and found himself wondering how Grantaire died.

Did he drown? Was he stabbed? Was he forced to walk the plank? Did he fight? Did he try to protect someone? Oh, it would be so like him to get killed while trying to hide a child, or save a young woman or man. Enjolras did not doubt for a moment that he died bravely, but he simply did not know how and it was tearing him apart.

He did not sleep again for some time. True love, he realized, did not guarantee anything. It saved no one, was worth nothing.

“I will never love again,” he whispered to himself in his dark room, and it was a promise. If this is what love, he spat the word derisively, did to a man, then he had no wish to partake in it. There were better things to occupy his time with, things that would hurt less.

There was a moment of doubt in which he feared that he had allowed himself no time to mourn, but it took him no time at all to realize that Grantaire would not have wanted him to mourn. Grantaire would have wanted him to continue. So continue he did.

Enjolras occupied the next five years of his life with the people. The first months after Grantaire’s death (it still hurt Enjolras to think of it, so he did his best not to dwell on it) were filled with books. Enjolras left his room for only the most important of reasons, instead spending his time pouring over the history of the people, over philosophy and manuscripts, speeches and theories, accounts of the kingdom and reports on modern politics. He devoured everything he could, educating himself to the best of his ability. Once educated, he chose to spend his time with the people, getting to know the lower classes and their struggles.

So when Prince Montparnasse began to search the kingdoms for a suitable husband, and offered Enjolras his hand, Enjolras accepted. As a prince – king – of the realm, there was so much he would be able to do. He could lower taxes, offer fair and just trials. Ideas for the reforms he could make to the judicial system alone kept him awake many nights, to say nothing of social and financial changes. This was opportunity!

In those five years, he never once allowed himself to look back. He kept himself busy, always busy, never think of all he was missing. Never think of dark hair and laughing eyes. There was no time for such thoughts, no use for such sentimentality. But when he was presented to the cheering crowds as their new prince, he found himself wishing desperately for Grantaire’s hand in his. Even after all this time, the marriage still felt like a betrayal.

But even though Enjolras came to live at the castle, their marriage was not to be official for some time. There were preparations to be made, food to be cooked, invitations to be sent, people to be hired. And, it was becoming more and more apparent, there was no love between Montparnasse and Enjolras.

Enjolras was beautiful; he knew this. Grantaire had whispered it into his skin a thousand times, and Montparnasse hissed it at him as he passed. Montparnasse was…not what Enjolras expected of a prince. He was lovely to look at, all dark hair and red lips and pale eyes. But he was dark in other ways, in was Enjolras was not completely sure he wanted to understand.

As a result, he spent much time among the people. When books eluded him, he took comfort in riding to the villages nearby, mingling with the common people, hearing their woes, promising a better tomorrow.

It was on his way back from one of these rides that three men stopped him. There was a short man in gaudy clothing, a pointed hat atop his graying curls. To one side of him stood a mountain of a man with a scar through his eyebrow, and to his other side stood a wiry young man with a shock of red hair.

“We are but poor lost circus performers. Is there a town nearby?” The man in colorful clothing spoke with an oily tone to his voice – just the sight of him rubbed Enjolras wrong. He looked…shady, with beady eyes and a confident grin.

“There is nothing around, not for miles,” replied Enjolras, tightening his hands on the reins.

”Then there will be no one to hear you scream!” exclaimed the little man, and before Enjolras could kick his mount to a gallop, large hands closed around his neck and consciousness slipped from his grasp.

…

Thenardier, for that was the short man’s name, was tearing a strip of fabric from an old army uniform and tying it to Enjolras’ black stallion when Bahorel, the large man, approached him.

Bahorel watched curiously, his brow furrowed in mild confusion. “What’s that you’re ripping?”

“Army uniform from Gilder,” Thenardier snapped, as if it was obvious.

“The country across the sea?” Feuilly piped up, swinging off of the boat and going to stand near Bahorel.

“Yes, sworn enemy of Florin. Once the horse reaches the castle, the prince will suspect Gilder of the kidnapping. Their suspicions will be confirmed once Enjolras turns up dead on the border!” Thenardier cackled gleefully, but Bahorel shifted uncomfortably.

“That is not right. We shouldn’t be killing people, Thenardier. That’s not what I agreed to.”

“You’re not the one doing the killing, halfwit. I’ll kill him, you just have to get him to the border.”

“Bahorel is right,” Feuilly argued. “You said nothing of murder, only kidnapping.”

“Look you numbskulls,” Thenardier shouted, going red in the face. “I found you – “ he jabbed Bahorel in the chest, “getting the shit kicked out of you in a bar brawl gone wrong after you dropped out from school.” He whirled around to glare at Feuilly, “And I found you drunk enough to piss yourself, and starving to death, in an alleyway! Neither of you are fit to be making decisions!”

And with that, he stormed back to the boat, leaving the two young men by themselves. With a heavy sigh, Feuilly turned to Bahorel.

“Someday, we’ll get out of this, you’ll see. We can leave this fiasco behind us. You can go back to school, I can avenge my parents. It’ll work out.” Bahorel could only nod in response, but his heart wasn’t in it.

On the boat, Enjolras lay in a corner, still unconscious. He looked, Feuilly thought to himself, every bit the prince – golden curls, angelic face. But he hadn’t seemed haughty or naïve; he had seemed kind and strong, and Feuilly sighed regretfully to himself as he tore his gaze away from the man and went back to staring off of the boat.

As soon as he looked away, Enjolras cracked open one eye. The world was hazy and rocked dangerously with the motions of the boat, and for a moment, Enjolras could not figure out where he was. It was only when he saw the three men with him on the boat and took in their location that he realized that he had been kidnapped. It should have awoken some sort of panic in him, but instead, he found himself merely mildly annoyed.

“We’ll reach the cliffs by dawn,” it was the short man in the colorful clothing that spoke, Enjolras noticed, and pegged him as the leader. The largest of the men was lounging in the back of the boat, and the thin boy was perched on the back of the boat. “Feuilly, what are you doing?” asked the short man, annoyance coloring his voice.

“I am keeping watch to make sure no one follows us,” Feuilly replied. Enjolras said nothing, content to watch and bide his time.

Thenardier chuckled. “That would be inconceivable, utterly laughable! No one would think to follow us, why would they? Florin thinks that is’ Gilder, and Gilder doesn’t know what we’ve done! Inconceivable, I tell you!”

“Despite what you think, you will be caught. And when you are, you will all be hanged!” Enjolras muttered angrily to himself. If it was a personal matter, than he would have relaxed. But, from the sound of it, a war was being planned. And wars take a heavier toll on the people than they do anyone else, and the people of Florin were in no shape to be sending their children to war.

But Thenardier only scoffed. “Of all the necks on this boat, highness,” he mocked laughingly, “the one you should be worried about is your own!”

Enjolras fell silent, fuming, but bit his tongue. They passed the minutes in relative silence, Feuilly still staring out back.

“Relax, dammit!” Thenardier spat, and Feuilly jumped. Turning around, he looked anxious and worried.

“You are sure no one is following us?”

“I said it would be absolutely inconceivable! No one knows what we’ve done!” Shifting uncomfortably, Thenardier leaned forward. “Why do you ask?”

Feuilly shrugged, biting his lip. “No reason, I just looked behind us and someone was there.” His tone was nonchalant, but even Enjolras could read the tension in his shoulders.

“What!” Thenardier exclaimed, leaping to his feet, and running a hand through his messy hair. “Probably some fisherman out for a late night cruise through eel infested waters,” Enjolras, still watching, thought the entire scenario sounded ridiculous. He doubted it was Montparnasse already, but a fisherman was a ludicrous idea. However, while the two were distracted, there was an opening.

With only a moment’s hesitation, Enjolras leapt over the railing of the boat and into the water. The water was a shock against his skin, and for a brief instant, his clothes dragged him beneath the water before he could get a breath. His lungs burned as he kicked for the surface, and he caught himself wondering if this is how Grantaire had died before shoving the thought out of his head. He had to escape – he had no time for this.

So he snapped his legs and began to swim, pushing through the murky waters. As he came up for breath, he could hear fragments of an argument on the ship.

“-go after him you firehaired idiot!”

“I cannot swim!”

“-doesn’t matter, that’s what Bahorel is-“

“-cannot swim either-“

“-left!”

But the argument was cut short as an unearthly shriek echoed over the water. It was like nothing Enjolras had heard before and he froze, treading water and not daring to move. It was terrifying, like wolves howling late at night. It was primal terror, making him shudder, even as he struggled to stay afloat.

“You know what that sound is, highness?” Thenardier jeered. “Those are the shrieking eels. You don’t believe me, just wait! They always grow louder when they’re about to feed on human flesh!”

Flesh! Enjolras began to frantically paddle around, trying to get to shore. If he died, then there would be no one to protect the people, no one to complete the reforms. This was on his shoulders, and he couldn’t let them down.

He was still swimming when the first eel came at him. It was long and lithe, its body glistening with water and its fangs dripping with poison.

With an undignified yelp, Enjolras began to swim backwards as fast as he could. There was no time to think about the people anymore, or the kidnappers, just himself and the eel. Everything else faded away in a whirl of adrenaline, but even as Enjolras put all of his effort into escape, he knew he wouldn’t make it.

“If you swim back now, I can promise no harm will come to you!” called Thanerdier, cutting through Enjolras’ panic. “I doubt you’ll get such an offer from the eels.”

It was a good offer, Enjolras couldn’t deny that. And the eel was getting closer, closer – he could see its beady eyes, count the scales on its nose. And he caught himself thinking of lazy summer days and gray eyes, cught himself thinking I’ll see you soon because it was still gaining on him, and this was it, it had to be the end –

The back of his shirt was grabbed roughly and he was hauled into the boat by Bahorel, then dropped onto the wet wood unceremoniously. His heart was still beating erratically, his breath coming in short gasps, and he was still processing that he was alive. Thenardier stomped over, looking angry, but before he could begin to yell, Feuilly spoke up.

“The boat, it’s getting closer!”

But Thenardier ignored him in favor of marching to where Enjolras lay and crouching so that they were face-to-face. “I suppose you think you’re brave, don’t you?”

“Only compared to some,” Enjolras spat at him, and Thenardier stalked away, his pride wounded. No one dared to speak after that, and so silence fell over them as the little boat sailed into the dawn.

The boat behind them drew steadily closer all of the while.


End file.
